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The town revolved around the river. In summer, when the blazing sun beat down, it dozed under the weight of the sultry days. On Main Street, a sow and her litter of pigs might root along the wooden sidewalk, sharing the deeply rutted roadway with foraging hens and a hound languidly scratching his fleas. None of them gave ground when wagons, drawn by plodding farm teams, creaked by on their way to market. On Water Street, clerks in the stores listlessly awaited buyers for butter at six cents a pound, sugar and coffee at five cents, eggs at three cents a dozen, native corn whiskey at ten cents a gallon.
Finding my passport and tickets is not easy, because I, Amber Brown, am one very messy third-grader. I quickly pull things out of my desk. The book I'm going to use for my report, half a roll of strawberry licorice, my sticker book, two headbands, seven rubber bands, eleven paper clips and finally, my passport and tickets, which I have put in a specially decorated case. I used a lot of my stickers on it.
The end seemed very near for Hudson, a Canadian Eskimo dog tethered near the shore of Hudson Bay east of Churchill, Manitoba. A thousand-pound polar bear was lumbering toward the dog and about 40 others, the prized possessions of Brian Ladoon, a hunter and trapper. It was mid-November; ice had not yet formed on the bay, and the open water prevented bears from hunting their favorite prey, seals. So this bear had been virtually fasting for four months. Surely a dog was destined to become a meal.
The bear closed in. Did Hudson howl in terror and try to flee? On the contrary. He wagged his tail, grinned, and actually bowed to the bear, as if in invitation. The bear responded with enthusiastic body language and nonaggressive facial signals. These two normally antagonistic species were speaking the same language: "Let’s play!"
The romp was on. For several minutes dog and bear wrestled and cavorted. Once the bear completely wrapped himself around the dog like a friendly white cloud. Bear and dog then embraced, as if in sheer abandon. Overheated by his smaller playmate’s shenanigans, the bear lay down and called for a time-out.
Every evening for more than a week the bear returned to play with one of the dogs. Finally, the ice formed and he set off for his winter habitat.
As she came nearer, she noticed that the mirage did not rest on the ground. It seemed to float just a little above the surface of the desert. She could see clear underneath it, where it cast a rippling blue shadow on the sand. Anna Lavinia shut her eyes tight and counted three before opening them. The mirage was still there. It did not go away at all as she approached. When she came close, she could see that it was floating gently about three feet off the ground. The wild flowers that grew on the edge hung over so that she could touch them, and when the camel began to nibble at some blue buttercups, Anna Lavinia knew she could believe what she saw.
This is Adam. Adam is just like all other children most ways. Adam likes to go to school. Adam likes to play with his friends. Adam likes to go places with his big brother, Bret. Adam loves to play with his kitten, Smitty. And Adam loves to visit the neighbor’s farm and feed carrots to the horses. Yes, Adam is just like most children, except Adam never sleeps!!! “I don’t want to go to bed!” Adam cried angrily at his mommy. “I want to stay up!” “But Adam,” his mommy sighed, “It’s past bedtime, and it is dark outside. All the other children are in their beds asleep.” “I don’t care,” shouted Adam. “I’m not going to bed and I’m not going to sleep because I don’t want to.”
There was no time for play. There was no time for fun. There was no times for games. There was work to be done. All that deep, deep, deep snow. All that snow had to go. When our mother went down to the town for the day, she said , “Somebody has to clean all this away. Somebody, SOMEBODY has to, you see.” Then she picked out two somebodies. Sally and me. Well... There we were. We were working like that. And then who should come up but the CAT IN THE HAT!
A fox, tipped with black, and full of sly wickedness, had lived in the grove for three years. That same night, he burst through the hedges into the yard where fair Chanticleer was in the habit of going. And the fox lay quietly in a bed of herbs until almost noon of that day. Partlet, with all her sisters nearby, lay merrily bathing in the sand, with her back to the sun, and the lordly Chanticleer sang more joyfully than the mermaid in the sea. Now it happened that, as he cast his eye upon a butterfly among the herbs, Chanticleer became aware of the fox lying low.
This is a true story. See, that's a photograph of me, coyote, in the newspaper, after I had been shot down in Central Park. Hey, don't worry, I wasn't dead though. Just in for a long, soft sleep at the Bronx Zoo! Never had I seen so many animals in one place! And just exactly how did I get into this mess? Well . . . I had a dream - to go where no coyote had gone before...New York City!
Dear Whelden will show you great sights as you go: Right now you are riding down Stethoscope Row. And I know that, like all our top patients, you’re hoping to get yourself stethed with some fine first-class scoping. So I’m sure you’ll be simply delighted to hear that in the Internal Organs Olympics last year Doctor Schmidt, Smoot, Sinatra, Sylvester, and Fonz won fifteen gold medals, nine silver, six bronze! For the moment, however, we’ll by-pass this bunch. There is plenty of time to see them after lunch.
You must see Dr. Pollen, our Allergy Whiz, who knows every sniffle and itch that there is. Dr. Pollen will find, as he works on your case, if the face powder’s wrong on your stepsister’s face. He will check your reactions to thumbtacks and glue, catcher’s mitts, leaf mold, and cardigans, too, nasturtiums and marble cake, white and blue chalks, anthracite coal and the feathers of hawks. Also corn on the cob. Also buffalo grease and how you react when you’re stared at by geese. He’ll take copious notes. Then I’ll hazard a guess, that he’ll send you downstairs to see Dr. Van Ness.
This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven, because all the years inside of me – ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one – are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren’t even mine.
I found a little beetle, so that Beetle was his name. And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same. I put him in a match-box, and I kept him all the day ... And Nanny let my beetle out--Yes, Nanny let my beetle out--She went and let my beetle out--And Beetle ran away. She said she didn’t mean it, and I never said she did. She said she wanted matches and she just took off the lid. She said that she was sorry, but it’s difficult to catch an excited sort of beetle you’ve mistaken for a match.
Many years ago there was a magnificent ox. One day, when he was taking an afternoon stroll he attracted the attention of a drably dressed, thoroughly insignificant frog. Staring enviously at the splendid ox, the frog called out to his friends, “Look at the size of this fellow! He cuts a fine figure -- but no finer than I could if I tried.” With that he started to puff himself up, and quickly swelled to twice his normal size. “Am I now as big as our friend here?” he asked the other frogs; but they replied that he would have to do a great deal better that. The frog puffed himself up some more, before asking the same question again.
One evening Goblin said, “Ghost, let’s go for a walk.” “Now?” said Ghost. “It’s very late.” “I know,” said Goblin. “But I feel like walking.” “All right, I’ll go with you.” And off they went. “It’s very dark out,” said Ghost. “Yes,” said Goblin. “But I’m not scared!” “Neither am I,” said Ghost. And off they went. “Goblin, what would you do if a monster came up behind us?” asked Ghost. “Well,” said Goblin, “I would turn red. Then I would turn blue. Then purple!
Far...far away, the Google lives, in a land which only children can go to. It is a wonderful land full of funny flowers, and birds, and hills of pure white heather. The Google has a beautiful garden which is guarded night and day. All through the day he sleeps in a pool of water in the center of the garden; but when night comes, he slowly crawls out of the pool and silently prowls around for food. All the birds try to avoid the Google, because they don’t like him and he frightens them; but some of them he can never catch, especially those with the red beaks. You can never see these birds anywhere except in Google land, which is far away, and only children can go there; and even they must be nearly -- but not quite -- asleep.
Grandma Tildy lived all alone. She worked hard every day. She had no time to play. One day a man came to her house. He was selling pets. “Would you like to buy a canary bird?” asked the man. “Very well,” said Grandma Tildy. “But no elephants!” Grandma Tildy was cooking stew. The bird wanted to help. So he sang a song for her. It made Grandma Tildy happy. That night they sat down to eat the stew together. And it tasted better than ever before.
Big Bird was taking pictures of the neighborhood. In the playground, he spotted The Amazing Mumford sitting under a tree. “Smile, Mumford!” called Big Bird. “I’ll take your picture.” Mumford smiled, but the camera didn’t click. Big Bird had used up all his film. “I can help.” said Mumford. “I can zap you some beautiful color pictures of Sesame Street.” “How can you do that, Mumford?” Big Bird asked. “Just watch.” And Mumford waved his magic wand one, two, three times in the air and said: “A la peanut butter sandwiches rainbow wackadoo!” Poof! Suddenly, colorful pictures of Sesame Street started rolling out of Big Bird’s camera. There were pictures of 123 Sesame Street, Hooper’s Store, The Furry Arms, Finder’s Keepers, and more.
My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire, and I was the third of five sons. When I was fourteen years old, he sent me to Cambridge University, where I remained three years and worked hard at my studies. The charge of keeping me in college was too great for my father, so I was bound apprentice to an eminent surgeon in London, where I resided four years. With small sums of money given to me by my father, I learned navigation and other parts of mathematics useful to those who intended to travel, as I always believed I would do some day.
One day a hare was boasting of his running speed and laughing at the tortoise for being so slow. Much to the hare’s surprise, the tortoise challenged him to a race. The hare, looking on the whole affair as a great joke, readily consented. The fox was selected to act as umpire, and hold the stakes. The race began and the hare, of course, soon left the tortoise far behind. Having reached the halfway point, and the day being warm, the hare decided to stop and play awhile. He then took a nap in a shady spot, thinking that if the tortoise passed him while he slept, he could easily overtake him before he reached the finish.
One day a bunny said, Good-by, I’m going to be an Indian. I’ll follow the stream and I’ll walk along a hidden forest trail -- so silently that not even the deer will hear me. In the stream I’ll find a tadpole and he’ll tell me how he turns into a frog. I’ll come to a meadow and do a deer dance when the sun is high. I’ll climb a tree and look far out. An eagle will come to his nest, so I’ll hide in my friend the Owl’s house and watch him. I’ll climb down and find a feather the eagle has floated down to me. Then I’ll follow the hidden trail to the place where the animals meet. And I’ll watch them. And when the sun is low I’ll silently steal away.
I was invited to sleep at Reggie’s house. Boy, was I happy. I had never slept at a friend’s house before. But I had a problem. It began when my sister said, “Are you taking your teddy bear along?” “Taking my teddy bear along?” I said. “To my friend’s house? Are you kidding? That’s the silliest thing I ever heard. Of course I’m not taking my teddy bear along.” And then she said, “But you never slept without your teddy bear before. How will you feel sleeping without your teddy bear for the very first time? Hmmmmmm?” “I’ll feel fine. I’ll feel great. I’ll probably love sleeping without my teddy bear. Just don’t worry about it,” I said. “Who’s worried?” she said.
A lion once fell in love with a woodman’s daughter, an asked for her hand in marriage. The woodman was not much pleased with the offer, and declined the honor of so dangerous an alliance. When the lion became threatening, the man cunningly pretended to give in, saying, “I am honored, sir. But what great teeth and claws you have -- enough to frighten any girl! If you are to marry my daughter you must have your teeth drawn and your claws cut.” The love-struck lion complied straightaway, and then called upon the father to accept him as a son-in-law.
Chug, chug, chug, puff, puff, puff, ding dong, ding dong. The little train rumbled over the tracks. She was a happy little train, for she had such a jolly load to carry. Her cars were filled full of good little things for boys and girls. There were toy animals -- giraffes with long necks, teddy bears with almost no necks at all, and even a baby elephant. Then there were dolls -- dolls with blue eyes and yellow curls, dolls with brown eyes and brown bobbed heads, and the funniest little clown you ever saw. And there were cars full of toy engines, airplanes, tops, jackknives, picture puzzles, and every kind of thing boys or girls could want.
“Please,” said Mrs. Primm, when she was connected with the zoo, “My crocodile isn’t feeling well today. Could you kindly recommend a good crocodile doctor?” “Where is the crocodile?” a man asked. “He’s right beside me, here in the living room,” said Mrs. Primm. “Living room?” “Yes ... liv ... ing roooom. Please,” continued Mrs. Primm, “He must have a doctor.” “Well ...” the man hesitated. “Yes, do go on,” pressed Mrs. Primm. “Well, there is a Dr. Lewis James on East 25th Street who is very good with crocodiles.” “Oh, thank you. Thank you so very much,” said Mrs. Primm gratefully. The instant Mrs. Primm put down the receiver, she realized she had forgotten to ask for the doctor’s phone number.
It was Joshua’s birthday. The Primms were happily busy with party preparations. Lyle the Crocodile, who lived with them, was busy too. And as usual, Lyle was being helpful. Parties were fun. He wished he could have one. He’d have colorful streamers, and big balloons, and a delicious cake. The more Lyle thought about it, the more he too wanted a birthday party. “Why shouldn’t I have birthday party?” he asked himself. “I was born, wasn’t I?” Suddenly, Lyle was very jealous of Joshua’s soon-to-be-celebrated birthday party. Lyle didn’t want to be jealous. It felt awful, in fact. Besides, he loved Joshua.
The King gave a sullen snort of rage. “Tomfoolery! Nonsensical bosh!” The Cat held up its paw for silence. “Will you answer my second question, please! Where is the sweetest milk to be found?” Immediately the King’s face cleared, and took on a confident smirk. “As simple as A.B.C.,” he said loftily. “The answer, of course, is Sardinia. For there the cows live on honey and roses and their milk is as sweet as Golden Syrup. Or perhaps I should saythe Elegant Islands, where they feed upon nothing but sugar cane. Or Greece, where they browse in the Candytuft. Now taking into consideration--“ “I can take nothing into consideration,” said the Cat, “except the fact that you have not answered my question. Where is the sweetest milk, O King?” “I know!” Cried the little Page, pausing for a moment above a half-filled inkwell. “In a saucer by the fire.” The Cat gave the child an approving nod and yawned in the face of the King.
Once upon a time, the mice, feeling constantly in danger from a cat, resolved to call a meeting to decide upon the best means of getting rid of this continual annoyance. Many plans were discussed and rejected. At last, a young mouse got up and proposed that a bell should be hung around the cat’s neck. This proposition was hailed with the greatest applause, and unanimous agreement. Upon which an old mouse got up and said that he considered the plan most ingenious, and that it would, no doubt, solve their problem. But he had one question to ask: Which one of them was going to put the bell around the cat’s neck?
The mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; ‘til he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said “Bother!” and “O blow!” and also “Hang spring cleaning!”
In walked Ivan Kazlinsky, the arch rival of Leon Kampinsky. “Ah, Max,” sneered Ivan, “still writing those stupid little poems that nobody likes? Bring me a drink why don¹t you.” I was ready to rip the pointy beard right off his face. I was ready to give his ugly pants a bite so big, he would be wearing shorts. But instead I looked him in the eye and said “Ha!”
Mister Fox was nearly famished, and thirsty too, so he stole into vineyard where he spied bunches of sun-ripened grapes hanging up on a trellis. The grapes were very tempting, but they were too high for the fox to reach. So, he took a run and jumped up at the nearest bunch. But he missed. Again and again the fox jumped, only to miss the luscious prize every time. At last, worn out with his efforts, he retreated, muttering as he went, “Well, I never really wanted those grapes anyway. I bet they’re sour, and probably wormy, too.”
Moomintroll got out of bed as quietly as he could so as not to wake Moominpappa and Moominmamma, and went up to the window, opened it carefully and looked out. Now he could hear the faint sound of the waves breaking on the beach, and see the dark rocks floating forlornly in the sea. Far away a bird called; the island was completely at rest. No--something was happening down on the beach. The distant fall of hurrying feet, something splashing in the water--something was happening down there.
The wind changed and the dragon could only hear confused sounds of talking, but the men seemed to be deciding who would stay and who would go.
“They’ll fiind me for sure if I stay here, and I don’t want to trap myself too, Thought the dragon. “Daylight or no, I’d better fly and get Elmer. He’ll know what to do, if we can get back in time.”
Quickly he fitted the snapdragon roots over the tunnel hole, arranging them carefully so they wouldn’t look newly dug-up. Then, keeping close to the ground, he crept through the green meadows and up, up, up to the gap between the mountain peaks.
The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.” “Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs and maybe you don’t understand ‘em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you ain’t only an amateur, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got my opinion, and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county.”
There was once an old hermit who lived at the top of a densely forested mountain village. The old hermit seldom went down to the city, because each time he did, people stared and gawked at him, which made him uncomfortable and sad. The old hermit was not of ordinary appearance. He was odd looking . He never shaved and he wore the same old dirty and ragged clothes every day. His legs were bent and crooked. But perhaps the most striking feature of the old hermit was his head. It was.............
There was an old woman, as I’ve heard tell, she went to market her eggs for to sell; she went to market all on a market day; and she fell asleep on the king’s highway. There came by a peddler whose name was Stout, he cut her petticoats all round about; he cut her petticoats up to the knees, which made the old woman to shiver and freeze. When this woman first did wake, she began to shiver and she began to shake. She began to wonder and she began to cry, “Lauk-a- mercy on me, this is none of I. But if it be I, as I do hope it be, I’ve a little dog at home, and he’ll know me; if it be I, he’ll wag his little tail, and if it be not I, he’ll loudly bark and wail!”
A peacock was discontented with his ugly voice, and he went to the goddess Juno to complain about it. “It’s true that you cannot sing,” said the goddess, “but your great beauty more than makes up for it.” But the peacock was not to be consoled. “What is the use of beauty,” he asked, “with a voice like mine?” Now Juno grew impatient. “Each has his destined gift: you have beauty, the eagle strength, the nightingale song. Yet you alone are dissatisfied. Complain no more. If your present wish were granted, you would only find some other grievance.”
Peter was sitting by himself. He looked poorly, and was dressed in a red cotton pocket-handkerchief. “Peter,” -- said little Benjamin, in a whisper -- “who has got your clothes?” Peter replied -- “The scarecrow in Mr. McGregor’s garden,” and described how he had been chased about the garden, and had dropped his shoes and coat. Little Benjamin sat down beside his cousin, and assured him that Mr. McGregor had gone out in a gig, and Mrs. McGregor also; and certainly for the day, because she was wearing her best bonnet.
Gritch the Witch woke up grouchy, grumpy, and very hungry. Her belly grumbled for something delicious. Something delightful. Something special. But what? It wasn’t purple mouse-tail stew. No, she ate that yesterday for lunch. Maybe some mashed dragon-tongue pudding? No, Gritch wasn’t in the mood for anything quite that sweet. Perhaps a taste of boiled buzzard feet? That always made her mouth water. No, not today. Today, Gritch wanted something truly tasty. Something really yummy. Something SPECIAL! And that could only mean….PIGGIE PIE! “Yes, yes, Piggie Pie! I can taste those plump, juicy, pink piggies right now,” Gritch said smacking her lips.
Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr, a ridiculous kitten with silky fur. And little black Pinkle grew and grew till he got as big as the big Tattoo. And all that he did he did with her. “Two friends together,” says Pinkle Purr. Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr, an adventurous cat in a coat of fur. And whenever he thought of a thing to do, he didn’t much bother about Tattoo, for he knows it’s nothing to do with her, so “See you later,” says Pinkle Purr.
Ramona Quimby was nine years old. She had brown hair, brown eyes, and no cavities. She had a mother, a father, a big sister named Beatrice, who was called Beezus by the family, and, this was the exciting part, a baby sister named Roberta, after her father, Robert Quimby. "Look at her tiny fingernails," Ramona marveled as she looked at the sleeping Roberta, "and her little eyebrows. She's already a whole person, only little!" Ramona couldn't wait for the first day of school, so she could spread the news about her baby sister. That day finally came. It was a warm September day, and Ramona, neat and clean, with lunch bag in hand, half-skipped, half-hopped, scrunching through dry leaves on the sidewalk. She was early, she knew, but Ramona was the sort of girl who was always early, because…
“Ratty,” said the Mole suddenly one bright summer morning, “if you please, I want to ask you a favour.” The Rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song. He had just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would not pay proper attention to the Mole or anything else. Since early morning he had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends the ducks. And when the ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will, he would dive down and tickle their necks, just under where their chins would be if ducks had chins, ‘til they were forced to come to the surface again in a hurry, spluttering and angry and shaking their feathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite all you feel when your head is underwater.
Round bird is not like other birds, he has a big round body with little wings. He cannot fly but, he wants to play with the other birds more than anything. Everyday and in many ways, he tries to fly, then he tries again. But nothing worked. Then he thought it might be better to use the tree. Round bird is determined to fly.
One Tuesday night, seven-year-old Nick Dunn dreamed he was being chased by a green monster. Nick tried to run. But the faster he ran, the slower he went. Suddenly, the monster grabbed him with his slimy hands -- Nick woke up yelling. He kept yelling until his mother hurried into his bedroom.
Once there was a little bear who didn’t like to take a bath. When his mother said, “It’s Saturday, Little Bear, so go on in and take your bath,” he didn’t. He ran the water and took off his clothes. He sat down on the floor and flipped one paw in the water, back and forth, back and forth -- as if he were washing all nice and clean. Then he dried his paw and got dressed in his clean clothes, and came out. He thought he was pretty smart, that sly little bear! But one day his mother took a good look at him at inspection time. She even put on her glasses and took a better look. Then she said, “Little Bear, you look pretty dirty for a little bear who takes a bath every Saturday. It seems to me that you’d better take one every day of the week.” And after that, he did.
Christopher Robin had wheezles and sneezles, they bundled him into his bed. They gave him what goes with a cold in the nose, and some more for a cold in the head. They wondered if wheezles could turn into measles, if sneezles would turn into mumps; they examined his chest for a rash, and the rest of his body for swellings and lumps. They sent for some doctors in sneezles and wheezles to tell them what ought to be done. All sorts and conditions of famous physicians came hurrying round in a run. They all made a note of the state of his throat, they asked if he suffered from thirst; they asked if the sneezles came after the wheezles, or if the first sneezle came first.
"Right here. I have a story to tell. Me me me! Last night I decided I was going to go to see the stars. So I jumped into my space ship. I buckled myself in (buckle noise), I put on my helmet, and I pushed all of the buttons (button noise). And then (space ship take off noise) woo hoo, I was on my way!"
Once upon a time, many years ago -- when our grandfathers were little children -- there was a doctor, and his name was Dolittle -- John Dolittle, M.D. “M.D.” means that he was a proper doctor and knew a whole lot. He lived in a little town called Puddleby-on-the-Marsh. All the folks, young and old, knew him well by sight. And whenever he walked down the street in his high hat everyone would say, “There goes the Doctor! -- He’s a clever man.” And the dogs and the children would all run up and follow behind him; and even the crows that lived in the church-tower would caw and nod their heads. The house he lived in, on the edge of town, was quite small; but his garden was very large and had a wide lawn and stone seats and weeping willows hanging over.
Soon after sunrise on a perfect summer morning, Hazel came out of his burrow through the honeycomb and into the fresh air of the down. Dusk and dawn are activity times for rabbits, and already a number were grazing in twos and threes on the slope and out along the crest, paying almost no attention even to one another as they foraged through the short grass. It was a peaceful scene, and the rabbits, knowing that they had no danger to fear, were absorbed in the enjoyment of feeding in the early sunshine.
The worst thing about Sheila is the way she’s always trying to touch me. And when she does she yells, “Peter’s got the cooties!” I don’t believe in cooties anymore. When I was in second grade I used to examine myself to see if I had them. But I never found any. By fourth grade most kids give up on cooties. But not Sheila. She’s still going strong. So I have to keep a safe distance from her.
“Being the only little fish in the fishpond isn’t exactly fun, you know.” “Mommy and Daddy are here, Harold,” said Harold’s parents. “But if I had a playmate my own age, I’d have a lot more fun.” “Well, there aren’t any little fish your age in the fishpond Harold, but you can still have fun.” “Phooey.” “But Harold, it’s true.” “What kind of fun?” “Well, let’s see ... you can tickle the ducks with bubbles.” “Yes, but if I had playmates, it would be twice as much fun.” “And you’ve always loved tangling up the fisherman’s lines. And you know you just love leaping in and out of the water.” “Yes, but if I had a playmate, it would be even more fun.” “Be patient, Harold.”
Nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin-Horse understand all about it. “What is real?” asked the rabbit one day. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?” “Real isn’t how you’re made,” said the Skin-Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time ... not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real.”
There once was a Velveteen Rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy’s stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.
These are my two drops of rain. Waiting on the window-pane. I am waiting here to see. Which the winning one will be. Both of them have different names. One is John and one is James. All the best and all the worst. Comes from which of them is first. James has just begun to ooze. He's the one I want to lose. John is waiting to begin. He's the one I want to win. James is going slowly on. Something sort of stick s to John. John is moving off at last. James is going pretty fast. John is rushing down the pane. James is going slow again. James has met a sort of smear. John is getting very near. Is he going fast enough? James has found a piece of fluff. John has hurried quickly by. James was talking to a fly. John is there, and John has won! Look! I told you! Here's the sun!
The Water Rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why. To all appearances the summer’s pomp was still at fullest height, and although in the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowans were reddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny fierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing year. But the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to a casual evensong from a few yet unwearied performers; the robin was beginning to assert himself once more; and there was a feeling in the air of change and departure.
In the darkness and warmth of the burrow Hazel suddenly woke , struggling and kicking with his back legs. Something was attacking him. There was no smell of ferret or weasel. No instinct told him to run. His head cleared and he realized he was alone except for Fiver. It was Fiver who was clambering all over him, clawing and grabbing like a rabbit trying to climb a wire fence in a panic. “Fiver! Fiver, wake up , you silly fellow! It’s Hazel. You’ll hurt me in a moment. Wake up!” He held him down. Fiver struggled and woke.
On Halloween, wee witches hatch from pumpkins in this pumpkin patch. Before their spree, there is one rule: They first must go to Scaring School. In class, the older witches teach the younger ones just how to screech. When school is over, the witches are free to scare us all on their Halloween spree.
One day, Elmo and Zoe hurried to the playground in hopes of finding an open swing. It was quite early in the morning, so they thought they would be first. They were in for a big surprise. There, on the good ol’ Sesame Street playground, were five most unusual animals. A toucan with a long, colorful beak fluttered from swing to swing. A big, hairy camel tried to fit itself into the tiny sandbox. A wild goat, with two large horns, climbed and slipped on the slide. A long-legged crab and a turtle flopped about in the water fountain.
They waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in the snow to keep their feet warm. At last they heard the sound of slow shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside. It seemed, as the Mole remarked to the Rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers that were too large for him and down at the heel; which was intelligent of Mole, because that was exactly what it was. There was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few inches, enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes. “Now, the very next time this happens,” said a gruff and suspicious voice, “I shall be exceedingly angry.”
While all this was happening, Piglet had gone back to his own house to get Eeyore’s balloon. He held it very tightly against himself, so that it shouldn’t blow away, and he ran as fast as he could so as to get to Eeyore before Pooh did; for he thought that he would like to be the first one to give a present, just as if he had thought of it without being told by anybody. And running along, and thinking how pleased Eeyore would be, he didn’t look where he was going ... and suddenly he put his foot in a rabbit hole, and fell down flat on his face.
When Pooh saw what it was, he nearly fell down, he was so pleased. It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked “B” for Bear, and pencils marked “HB” for Helping Bear, and pencils marked “BB” for Brave Bear. There was a knife for sharpening the pencils, and india-rubber for rubbing out anything which you had spelt wrong, and a ruler for ruling lines for the words to walk on, and inches marked on the ruler in case you wanted to know how many inches anything was, and Blue Pencils and Red Pencils and Green Pencils for saying special things in blue and red and green. And all these lovely things were in little pockets of their own in a Special Case which shut with a click when you clicked it. And they were all for Pooh.
A wolf devoured his prey so ravenously that a bone stuck in his throat, giving him great pain. He ran howling up and down, and offered to reward handsomely anyone who would pull it out. A crane, moved by pity as well as by the prospect of money, undertook the dangerous task. Having removed the bone, he asked for the promised reward. “Reward!” cried the wolf. “Pray, you greedy fellow, what reward can you possibly require? You have had your head in my mouth, and instead of biting it off, I have let you pull it out unharmed. Count yourself lucky, you insolent bird, and don’t ever come within reach of my paw!”
The Nautilus was floating in the midst of a phosphorescent layer which, in the semidarkness, seemed extraordinarily bright. This effect was produced by myriads of tiny, luminous animals, whose glitter increased as they touched the submarine’s metal hull. I also saw flashes of light in the midst of these waters, looking like streams of melted lead in a blazing furnace, or metal brought to a red-white heat; they were such that by contrast some of the other luminous areas were like shadows in the fiery waters, from which all shadows should have disappeared. No, this was no longer the calm gleam of normal light! It was full of an extraordinary intensity and movement! This light felt as if it were alive!
Pluto -- this was the cat's name -- was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets. Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character -- through the instrumentality of the fiend Intemperance -- had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting." Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair. "I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly." She left the chamber. Harry swallowed. "How exactly do they sort us into houses?" he asked Ron. "Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking." Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of the whole school? But he didn't know any magic yet - What on earth would he have to do? He hadn't expected something like this the moment they arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified too. No one was talking much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she'd learned and was wondering which one she'd need. Harry tried hard not to listen to her. He'd never been more nervous.
As young readers like to know “how people look,” we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and the Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, and a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt; for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman, and didn’t like it.
I pictured that, or tried to. Maybe Cherry stood still and watched the sun set while she was supposed to be taking the garbage out. Stood there and watched and forgot everything else until her big brother screamed at her to hurry up. I shook my head. It seemed funny to me that the sunset she saw from her patio and the one I saw from the back steps was the same one. Maybe the two different worlds we lived in weren’t so different. We saw the same sunset.
The island feels different without my dad. When we came here for our three weeks every summer, just the two of us, we'd stay in the little fishing shack right down by the water, curling up in sleeping bags on musty blown-up air mattresses...Every night, before we went to sleep, Dad and I would lie on our backs in the long sweet grass beside the shack and watch the sky, and he'd point out the constellations...This summer was my mom's idea. I didn't want to come, but she said it would make me feel less lonely for Dad...And you have a job to do there, she'd said with a stern look, as if I could ever forget what my dad had asked me to do."
The Mermaids Chapter 2...The next morning, as soon as Trot had helped wipe the breakfast dishes and put them away in the cupboard, the little girl and Cap'n Bill started out toward the bluff. The air was soft and warm, and the sun turned the edges of the waves into sparkling diamonds.
Winnie Foster is about to meet the Tuck family, and the Tuck family is not like any other family in the world. Soon Winnie will be faced with the most important decision of her life. For once you've met the Tucks... things are never the same. The man in the yellow suit came into the sunlit parlor. He stood for a moment, looking around at them all. May and Miles and Jessie and Tuck. And Winnie, too. His face was without expression, but there was something unpleasant behind it that Winnie sensed at once. Something that made her instantly suspicious. And yet his voice was mild when he said "You're safe now, Winnifred. I've come to take you home."
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There between the graves, a beautiful red fern had sprung up from the rich mountain soil. It was fully two feet tall and its long red leaves had reached out in rainbow arches curved over the graves of my dogs. I had heard an old Indian legend about the red fern. How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a blizzard and had frozen to death. In the spring, when they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up between their two bodies. The story went on to say that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred. Remembering the meaning of the legend, I turned and started hollering for Mama.
Meg looked around her, realizing that she had been so breathless from the journey and the stop on the two-dimensional planet that she had not noticed her surroundings. And perhaps this was not very surprising, for the main thing about the surroundings was exactly that they were unnoticeable. They seemed to be standing on some kind of nondescript, flat surface. The air around them was gray. It was not exactly fog, but she could see nothing through it. Visibility was limited to the nicely definite bodies of Charles Wallace and Calvin, the rather unbelievable bodies of Mrs. Whatsit and Mrs. Who, and a faint occasional glimmer that was Mrs. Which.
Becky DeGeorge, in the bloom of her first full day as Michael's wife, walked out of the hotel lobby holding her husband's hand. She breathed in the cool night air, the first fresh air she had inhaled all day. In the brief span of their marriage, she and Michael had made love several times and taken two steamy showers together. They had poked their heads out for an obligatory but, at last, final brunt with the families. They had begged
off the trip to Opus One, scurried back upstairs, and popped a last bottle of champagne. Michael had put on a sex video and as they watched the film they played out some unusual and exciting roles. He seemed to have fantasies about wearing women's clothes.
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time, Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point. Every year during the month of March a family of ragged gypsies would set up their tents near the village, and with a great uproar of pipes and kettledrums they would display new inventions.
My present to Helen at the time of our marriage was a modest gold watch, and this had depleted my capital to the extent that a bank statement at the commencement of our married life revealed the sum of 25 shillings standing to my credit. Admittedly, I was a partner now, but when you start from scratch, it takes a long time to get your head above water. But we did need the essentials, like a table, chairs, cutlery, crockery, the odd rug and carpet, and Helen and I decided that it would be most sensible to pick up these things at house sales.
Joan Murdoch helped me fill out the application. When we finished, I told her that if I were half as gifted as all my teachers raved I was, I had a shot. She agreed. Once Grandma Lil discovered she would still be my legal guardian and that my going away would not jeopardize her monthly income from the City of New York, she signed her name to my application in the rounded, overlarge letters of the semiliterate.
"What's the matter?" St. Nicholas asked "Oh, St. Nicholas," Harim said. "We aren't important enough for such a big occasion. Last year the Archangel made Heaven sparkle with gold and silver." "And the year before, the Heavenly Choir made Christmas with harps and trumpets, and hundreds of voices singing in a magnificent chorus. What could we do that would be good enough?" asked Petra, the Music Angel.
The first twigs are thin, green, and supple. They bend into a complete circle, but will not break. Their delicate, showy hopefulness shooting from forsythia and lilac bushes meant only a change in whipping style. They beat us differently in the spring. Instead of the dull pain of a winter strap, there were these new green switches that lost their sting long after the whipping was over. There was a nervous meanness in these long twigs that made us long for the steady stroke of a strap or the firm but honest slap of a hairbrush. Even now spring for me is shot through with the remembered ache of switchings, and forsythia holds no cheer.
Maggie and Ira Goldstein had to go to a funeral in Pennsylvania. Maggie’s girlhood friend had lost her husband. Deerlick lay on a narrow country road some 90 miles north of Baltimore, and the funeral was scheduled for 10:30 Saturday morning, so Ira figured they should start around 8. This made him grumpy. He was not an early morning kind of man. Also, Saturday was his busiest day at work, and he had no one to cover for him. Also, their car was in the body shop. It had needed extensive repairs, and Saturday morning at opening time, 8 o’clock exactly, was the soonest they could get it back. Maybe they’d just better not go, but Maggie said they had to, for she and Serena had been friends forever ... or nearly forever ...
In the Brazilian film "Central Station", Dora is a retired schoolteacher who makes ends meet by sitting at the station writing letters for illiterate people. Suddenly she has an opportunity to pocket $1,000. All she has to do is persuade a homeless 9 year old boy to follow her to an address she has been given. (She is told he will be adopted by wealthy foreigners.) She delivers the boy, gets the money, spends some of it on a television set, and settles down to enjoy her new acquisition. Her neighbor spoils the fun, however, by telling her that the boy was too old to be adopted _ he will be killed and his organs sold for transplantation. Perhaps Dora knew this all along, but after her neighbor’s plain speaking, she spends a troubled night. In the morning Dora resolves to take the boy back.
Suppose Dora had told her neighbor that it is a tough world, other people have nice new TVs too, and if selling the kid is the only way she can get one, well he was only a street kid. She then have become, in the eyes of the audience a monster. She reems herself only by being prepared to bear considerable risk to save the boy.
A bloated vampire moon drained all life and colour form the world. The snow-covered land came speeding past the train. It was gray and ill-defined, marked only by a few livid cottages and limitless black forest grizzled with snow. No roads; the railway did not follow any road, it cut through the land like a knife.
p. 45
After months of very little repose, my wife and I grew irritable, barking at each other about everything from whose turn it was to sing, “I See the Moon” to our daughter at 3am to who – in our sleepwalking states, had placed the baby monitor in the fridge next to the long-forgotten bottle of white wine. We bought a crib from a couple we knew and tried to relocate our daughter from our bed into the new digs, but as soon as she saw her new gated community of one, she wailed like a banshee. Since my wife and I were both sleepy and cowardly, we moved her back in with us.
“Mamaaaaa,” our daughter yelled. We crouched down even lower, as if she had one of those thermal-imaging machines the cops use to see through the walls of homes rented by violent felons. She abandoned what little speech she possessed and regressed to primal screams and cries, the kind we hadn’t heard for months. Below the wails, we listened to her rattle the bars of her wooden cage. My wife, eyes closed, whispered softly to herself. Even though she was raised Catholic among Mormons in Utah, my wife is usually not someone who speaks freely to the Lord.
“Should I pray, too?” I asked her in what I believed what a spousal bonding moment.
She opened her eyes. “Pray? I’m swearing, you idiot,” she said, and I could recognize the mother tongue clearly now.
Any desire of the heart is there for you to discover and manifest. Whatever inspires you is an aspect of yourself. Be precise about what you admire in someone and find that part in yourself. If you have the aspiration to be something, it's because you have the potential to manifest what you are seeing.
One evening, a platoon of soldiers arrived at a small village after a long hike. The next morning, being Sunday, several of the men went to church. A sergeant commanded the boys to kneel and after the chaplain had read the prayer, the text was taken up next. Those who had prayer books took them out, but this one soldier had only a deck of cards. So he spread them out. The Sergeant saw the cards and said, “Soldier, put away those cards!” After the services were over, the soldier was brought before the provost marshal. The marshal said, “Sergeant, why have you brought this man here?” “And what have you to say for yourself, son?” “Much sir,” replied the soldier. The marshal said, “I hope so, for if not, I will punish you quite severely.”
Art class was over but Vashti sat glued to her chair. Her paper was empty.
Vashti’s teacher leaed over the blank paper. “Ah! A polar bear in a snowstorm!, she said. “very funny!”, said Vashti. “I just CAN’T draw!”
Vashti thought for a moment. “Well, maybe I can’t draw, but I CAN sign my name.”
A great bat came flapping into the room. It drove the weird women away. Poor Renfield fell down, fainting from fright. In an instant, the bat disappeared. In its place was the smiling figure of Count Dracula! He was ready to claim his victim! Once bitten by the vampire, Renfield became Dracula’s slave. The evil Count wanted to go to England. Coffins, filled with Transylvanian earth, were taken to a ship and loaded on board. One of the coffins contained something else as well as dirt. Renfield guarded it well. When the ship landed in England, the horrified people at the dock found that the entire crew was dead. Only Renfield, now a raving madman, was left alive.
Someone coming toward her. It was going to happen again. Helpless. Helpless. Helpless. The scream that tore from Melis's throat jarred her awake. She jerked upright in bed. She was shaking, her T-shirt soaked with sweat.
Only a dream. She wasn't helpless. She'd never be helpless again. She was strong now.&&
#1: Origin of Space and Time
From Einstein’s work on general relativity came the recognition that there must be an origin for matter and energy. From Penrose, Hawking, and Ellis’ work came the acknowledgement that there must be an origin for space and time, too. With the knowledge that time has a beginning, and a relatively recent beginning, at that, all age-lengthening attempts to push away the creation event, and thus the Creator become absurd. Moreover, the common origin of matter, energy, space, and time proves that the act(s) of creation must transcend the dimensions and substance of the universe -- a powerful argument for the biblical doctrine of a transcendent Creator.
#2: The Earth as a Fit Habitat
About a dozen more parameters, including several atmospheric characteristics, currently are being researched for their sensitivity in the support of life. However, the twenty listed in Table 12.1 in themselves lead safely to the conclusion that much fewer than a trillionth of a percent of all stars will have a planet capable of sustaining advanced life. Considering that the universe contains only about a trillion galaxies, each averaging a hundred billion stars, we can see that not even one planet would be expected, by natural processes alone, to possess the necessary conditions to sustain life. No wonder Robert Rood and James Trefil, among others, have surmised that intelligent physical life exists only on the earth. It seems abundantly clear that the earth, too, in addition to the universe, has experienced divine design.
"Freedom is participation in power," said the Roman orator Cicero. By this deep definition, freedom is in short supply for tens of millions of Americans, a scarcity with serious consequences. This absence of freedom breeds apathy. Average citizens do not fight for change, even about the conditions and causes that mean the most to them. Our lack of civic motivation is the greatest problem facing the country today. Our beloved country is being taken apart by large multinational commercial powers. Over two thousand years ago, in ancient Athens, a fledgling democracy challenged the longstanding plutocracy, using politics as it instrument.
Laurent saw the barrel of the gun coming up, felt the madman tense against her. He was trying to lift her up with him as he shot Nicholas. Then she heard the screech of tires on the gravel outside the door. Was it Tommy? Oh, God no. Whoever cam through the doorway was going to get killed.
My mother’s hands are veiny and strong. Her neck has veins. Her back has freckles. She used to do a trick where it looked like she would be pulling off her thumb, when in fact she was not. Do you know this trick? Part of one’s right thumb is made to look like part of one’s left hand and then is slid up and down the index finger of the left finger – attached then detached. It’s an unsettling trick and more so when my mother used to do it because she did it in a way where her hands sort of shook, vibrated, her necks veins protruding with the strain plausibly attendant to pulling off one’s finger. As children we watched with both glee and terror.
The Century of Change is the story of Americans who combined their native skills with the growing torrent of new knowledge to improve the quality of life for themselves and their children. Like the sewing machine, countless other inventions and techniques appeared to help this determination become a reality. The story is not a routine report of smooth progress toward the perfection of life. There have been hardships, yes -- even injustice among Americans. The balance between laws and social progress is the critical element in George Washington’s “Great Experiment.” It is the people -- each new generation of Americans -- who must improve and maintain this balance within their Constitution.
The vast lands of the west attracted pioneers who brought new techniques of agriculture. People everywhere needed the products and services of an educated industrial nation. By 1870, there were 563 colleges and universities in the United States. By 1910, almost a thousand. The tradition of literacy established among colonial Americans raced to keep pace with the dynamics of progress. The teaching of science and engineering gave the nation vital technological ability.
A faint interest dawned inside her gaze, as if the amber light had won out and was turned reluctantly on me. She slumped slightly in her chair, relaxed into something like masculine ease, without taking her hands off her book. “What are those letters, exactly?” she asked, in her quiet foreign voice.
“Stoichev looked as if he had something else to say, but at that moment we heard vigorous footsteps on the stairs. He tried to rise, then shot me a pleading look. I snatched up the dragon folio and plunged into the next room with it, where I hid it as well as I could behind a box. I rejoined Stoichev and Helen in time to see Ranov open the door to the library.
Stanley was not a bad kid. He was innocent of the crime for which he was convicted. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was all because of his no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing-great-great-grandfather! He smiled. It was family joke. Whenever anything went wrong, they always blamed Stanley’s no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing-great-great-grandfather!
Supposedly, he had a great-great-grandfather who had stolen a pig from a one-legged Gypsy, and she put a curse on him and all his descendants. Stanley and his parents didn’t believe in curses, of course, but whenever anything went wrong, it felt good to be able to blame someone. Things went wrong a lot. They always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Why do we call it rush hour when no one goes anywhere? Like rush hour takes only one hour. Maybe we should have a slow hour -- 3 a.m. to 4 a.m. except weekends.
Last week I merged into traffic so hairy that people were actually backing off the freeway. And while I myself suffer from gridlock claustrophobia, once you're physically on the freeway ... that's pretty much a done deal. Do not pass Go; do not collect $200.
"Freeway." Good place for a "rush hour." The only difference between a freeway and side streets is that the streets have a fast lane -- for bicyclists. I've sat on the 101 so long that we could have used a Las Vegas yo-yo girl...
"Cigarettes? Soda? Candy?"
For those of you in the market, these conga-line cars are the same ones that advertise "freeway miles only." So it goes.
Problem with gridlock is that people are overheating. Road rage is worst in Arizona, which is -- coincidentally, I'm sure -- the hottest place to live outside the surface of the sun. I've never understood why people move to Arizona. They always say the same thing: "My home was so cheap." Yes, but when you walk outside, YOU'RE IN ARIZONA.
I myself don't carry a car gun, but I can see it. Once you've breathed someone's fumes for an hour, you start to wonder why they're out in the first place. Is their reason good enough? During "rush hour," traffic should be limited to women whose water has broken. And me.
While awaiting legislation, we could phase in car horns that reflect varying degrees of emotion. The first horn will be polite, as in, "Hellooo? Excuse me." The second will be more condescending like a foghorn. "Jaaack-hole." Then, when someone really gets in our grill, we pull the chord and release the flatulent cargo vessel "HOOOOONK."
Or maybe we'll go with car-tones to match our cell phone ringtones. I've always wanted a horn on the back of my car to play this riff from C&C Music Factory: "Chill, baby, baby, baby, chill, baby, wait."
The point is that that something must be done to relieve gridlock tedium before we all go Arizonan. People everywhere are coming home and collapsing by their spouses...
“In Germany, the Nazis first came for the Communists... and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist. Then they came for the Jews... and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists... and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics... but I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time there was no one left to speak for me.”
So ends the story of the strange and evil experience of the Invisible Man. And if you would learn more of him you must go to a little inn near Port Stowe and talk to the landlord. The sign of the inn is an empty board save for a hat and boots, and the name is the title of this story. The landlord is a short and corpulent little man with a nose of cylindrical protrusion, wiry hair, and a sporadic rosiness of visage. Drink generously, and he will tell you generously of all the things that happened to him after the time, and of how the lawyers tried to do him out of the treasure found upon him.
The velociraptor sniffed. It jerked its head, and looked right at Tim; Tim nearly gasped with fright. Tim’s body was rigid, tense. He watched as the reptile eye moved, scanning the room. Another sniff. He’s got me, Tim thought. Then the head jerked back to look forward, and the animal went on, toward the fifth steak. Tim thought, Lex please don’t move, please don’t move, whatever you do, please don’t ... The velociraptor sniffed the steak, and moved on. It was now at the open door to the freezer. Tim could see the smoke billowing out, curling along the floor toward the animal’s feet. One big clawed foot lifted, then came down again, silently. The dinosaur hesitated. Too cold, Tim thought.
WHY TRAGEDY HAS HAUNTED AMERICA'S FIRST FAMILY FOR 150 YEARS: THE KENNEDY CURSE (Edward Klein, St. Martin's Press, July 8, 2003)
The marriage made front-page news everywhere, and a new Kennedy myth was born. The man who could have had any woman in the world had chosen as his bride one who was not rich or famous or ennobled by family background or distinguished by any professional accomplishment. What Carolyn had were certain charismatic qualities- exceptional beauty, a unique sense of style, and a shrewd, sharp, hard intelligence.
The media played the marriage as a Cinderella story, casting Carolyn as the commoner who had found true love with Prince Charming. But it turned out to be a doomed fairy tale, a nightmare of escalating domestic violence, sexual infidelity, and drugs - a union that seemed destined to end in one kind of disaster or another.
My dear mother, I am very sorry to tell you that it will not be in our power to keep our promise of spending the holiday with you, and we are prevented that happiness by a circumstance which is not likely to make us any amends. Lady Susan in a letter to her Brother, has declared her intention to visiting us almost immediately, and as such a visit is in all probability merely an affair of convenience, it is impossible to conjecture its length. I was by no means prepared for such an event, nor can I now account for her Ladyship’s conduct. Langford appeared so exactly the place for her in every respect, as well from the elegant and expensive stile of Living there, as from her particular attachment to Mrs.
I first laid eyes on Lake Superior and the big country around it more than a decade ago. I drowned myself in its pleasures: fishing for trout, hunting for mushrooms, picking berries in its pine-scented air. On my frequent returns to the lake country, I have been heartened to find that it remains as I first knew it, uncommonly clear, still heavily forested, and bathed in exquisite stillness. You can hear a lynx scream, follow the tracks of wolves hunting deer, or sail along rock-strewn beaches without seeing a soul. And you may be awakened in the night, as I was in my sleeping bad, by a woodland caribou...
Sam moved forward and reached for the young man’s forearms. He hoped to subdue him quickly without any fighting and escort him from the playground; there was no point in provoking a riot. The tormenter, all slum muscle and grace, recoiled; Sam had barely touched him. The playground instructor saw the white arms and dirtied fists spring into position; a second later it was as if someone had exploded an electric light-bulb in his face. He was stumbling backward on his heel, feeling a thousand needles stinging his offended chin. Numbness radiated through his teeth and cheeks, and a little bath of salty blood was forming inside his lower lip. he had not fallen, however, and as his head cleared he saw the gatecrasher bouncing professionally, fists in the classic boxer’s pose, the abysmal face aglow with hoodlum joy.
Maybe feeling my hands on her face would make her understand what I was trying to say to her. But as I moved toward her, I could see in her eyes that nothing I said was going to change anything. I left them at the table and went back home to my room.
The street was empty and it was a cold night, a light rain was falling where he was driving to but I guessed we were going down all the time toward the lower city. In the end he pulled up in a little side street, stopped the engine and got out of the car, telling me to wait inside. He disappeared for a moment and then came back and told me to get out. I followed him and he seemed tense now, looking from side to side like a thief or something.
They returned to Yonville along the river. The summer weather had reduced its flow and left uncovered the river walls and water steps of the gardens along its bank. It ran silently, swift and cold-looking; long fine grasses bent with the current, like masses of loose green hair streaming in its limpid depths. Here and there on the tip of a reed or on a water-lily pad a spidery-legged insect was poised or crawling. Sunbeams pierced the little blue air bubbles that kept forming and breaking on the ripples; branchless old willows mirrored their gray bark in the water in the distance the meadows seemed empty all around them.
At the sudden impact of those words, crashing into her mind like a leaden bullet into a silver dish, Emma felt herself shudder; and she raised her head, straining to understand what he had meant by them. They looked at each other in silence, almost wonderstruck, each of them, to see that the other was there, so far apart had their thoughts carried them. Charles stared at her with the clouded gaze of a drunken man; motionless in his chair, he was listening to the screams that continued to come from the hotel.
There is a feeling of absolute finality about the end of a flight through darkness. The whole scheme of things with which you have lived acutely, during hours of roaring sound in an element altogether detached from the world, ceases abruptly. The plane noses groundward, the wings strain to the firmer cushion of earthbound air, wheels touch, and the engine sighs into silence. The dream of flight is suddenly gone before the mundane realities of growing grass and swirling dust, the slow plodding of men and the enduring patience of rooted trees. Freedom escapes you again, and wings that were a moment ago no less than an eagle's, and swifter, are metal and wood once more, inert and heavy.
And I asked myself, frightened and rapt, who was she who rose before me like the dawn, beautiful as the moon, radiant as the sun. Then the creature came still closer to me, throwing into a corner the dark package she had ‘til then held pressed to her body; and she raised her hand to stroke my face, and repeated the words I had already heard. And while I did not know whether to flee from her or move even closer, while my head was throbbing as if the trumpets of Joshua were about to bring down the walls of Jherico, as I yearned and at once feared to touch her, she smiled with great joy, emitted a stifled moan of a pleased she-goat, and undid the strings that closed her dress over her bosom, slipped the dress from her body like a tunic, and stood before me as Eve must have appeared to Adam in the garden of Eden.
…She wants to know what I study, what I plan to do in the future, what I think of private schools in Manhattan, what my parents do. I answer with as much filigree and insouciance as I can muster, trying to slightly cock my head like Snow White listening to the animals. She, in turn, is aiming for more of a Diane-Sawyer-pose, looking for answers which will confirm that I am not there to steal her husband, jewelry, friends, or child. In that order. Nanny Fact: in every one of my interviews, references are never checked. I am white. I speak French. My parents are college educated. I have no visible piercings and have been to Lincoln Center in the last two months. I’m hired.
Even in these enlightened days when women are CEOS and cabinet members, many still feel uncomfortable with blatant displays of power. Women are often afraid to ask for what they want because they tend to confuse assertion with aggression. Aggression implies violation. When you act aggressively, the other person will feel angry or taken advantage of. Assertion, on the other hand, means going after what you want without demeaning or intimidating the other person.
I listened, but if a wolf was broadcasting from those hills he was not on my wavelength. George, who had been sleeping on the crest of the esker, suddenly sat up, cocked his ears forward and pointed his long muzzle toward the north. After a minute or two he threw back his head and howled; a long, quavering howl which started low and ended on the highest note my ears would register. Ootek grabbed my arm and broke into a delighted grin. “Caribou are coming; the wolf says so!”
The small boys came early to the hanging.
It was still dark when the first three or four of them sidled out of the hovels, quiet as cats in their felt boots. A thick layer of fresh snow covered the little town like a new coat of paint, and theirs were the first footprints to blemish its perfect surface. They picked their way through the huddled wooden huts and along the streets of frozen mud to the silent marketplace, where the gallows stood waiting. The boys despised everything their elders valued. They scorned beauty and mocked goodness. They would hoot with laughter at the sight of a cripple, and if they saw a wounded animal they would stone it to death.
Once again the queen learned that holding the throne was harder than winning it. She spent the days after the uprising struggling with her conscience, faced with the agonizing question of what should be done with the rebels who had come against her and been so dramatically defeated. Clearly, God would protect this Mary on her throne, but God was not to be mocked. Mary must also protect herself.
So your school is having a science fair! Great! The science fair has long been a favorite educational tool in the American school system, and for a good reason: Your teachers hate you. Ha ha! No, seriously, although a science fair can seem like a big “pain,” it can help you understand important scientific principles, such as Newton’s First Law of Inertia, which states: “A body at rest will remain at rest until 8:45 p.m. The night before the science-fair project is due, at which point the body will come rushing to the body’s parents, who are already in their pajamas, and shout, “I just remembered the science fair is tomorrow and we gotta go to the store right now!”
p. 42
The suit is definitely the universal business outfit for men. There is nothing else that men like to wear when they’re doing business. I don’t know why it projects this image of power. Why is it intimidating?
“We’d better do what this guy says. His pants match his jacket.”
Men love the suit so much, we’ve actually styled our pajamas to look like a tiny suit. Our pajamas have little lapels, little cuffs, simulated breast pocket. Do you need a breast pocket on your pajamas? You put a pen in there, you roll over in the middle of the night, you kill yourself.
p. 70
People will kill each other for a parking space in New York because they think, “If I don’t get this one, I may never get a space. I’ll be searching for months until somebody goes out to the Hamptons.” Because everybody in New York City knows there’s way more cars than parking spaces. You see cars driving in New York all hours of the night. It’s like musical chairs except everybody sat down around 1964.
The problem is, while car manufacturers are building hundreds of thousands of new cars every year, they’re not making any new spaces. That’s what they should be working on. Wouldn’t that be great – you go to the auto show and they’ve got a big revolving turntable with nothing on it.
“New from Chrysler, a space.”
I came to Shawshank when I was just twenty, and I am one of the few people in our happy little family who is willing to own up to what he did. I committed murder. I put a large insurance policy on my wife, who was three years older than I was, and then I fixed the brakes of the Chevrolet coupe her father had given us as a wedding present, except I hadn’t planned on her stopping to pick up the neighbour woman and the neighbour woman’s infant son on the way down Castle Hill and into town.
I’ve told you as well as I can how it is to be an institutionalized man. At first you can’t stand those four walls, then you get so you can abide them, then you get so you can accept them ... and then, as your body, and your mind and your spirit adjust to life on an HO scale, you get to love them. You are told when to eat, when you can write letters, when you can smoke. If you’re at work in the laundry or the plate-shop, you’re assigned five minutes of each hour when you can go to the bathroom.
I don’t know how long it had been observing me, but now it peered at me with some alarm. Then the little animal--only slightly larger than a house cat--threw back its head, gave a single, shrill bark, and disappeared in a trot over a ridge. I chased after it over the hummocky tundra, but when I got to the top of the ridge, the fox was nowhere to be seen. The polar desert stretched out for miles in front of me--no trees, no shrubs, no deep valleys, just the gently rolling land, tufts of arctic grasses, and scattered wildflowers. Yet the fox was gone.
She rolled over and blinked him into focus. "What?, Who?" "The FBI Guys." She threw back the covers, scrambled from the bed and lunged toward the window, all in one motion. She raised a louver and peered through the blinds. A navy blue sedan was parked at the curb. Two suited men, one black, one white, were alighting. Turning back into the room, she looked at the clock on the nightstand. She had set her alarm for 8:30. It was 8:25. "They're early."
The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see.
The wind whined. A few leaves blew, scraping across the floor. The air was damp and cold. They stood silently.
“I wonder if he thought of us.” Chris said, looking at the stone face. “I wonder if he ever missed us.”
“Of course he did,” the professor said. “Don’t you miss him?”
Chris nodded. Kate sniffed, and blew her nose.
“I do,” Johnson said.
They went back outside. They walked down the hill to the car. By now the rain had entirely stopped. But the clouds had remained dark and heavy, hanging low over the distant hills.
From Better Homes and Gardens
In 1960, 5.8 million American kids lived in single-parent families. Today, that number has more than tripled, to an astonishing 18 million. Another figure is equally startling: nearly 40 percent of our children don't live in the same home as their biological father. Today, the number of kids whose parents are divorced is nearly equaled by the number of children in homes where there never has been a dad. One out of three babies in America today are born to unmarried women--a 600 percent increase since 1960. "Children need both a mom and a dad." Why both? In his recently published book, Life Without Father, Rutgers University sociologist David Popenoe details the unique yin and yang generated by a woman-man parenting team. "Mothers tend to be responsive and fathers firm. Mothers stress emotional security and relationships while fathers stress competition and risk-taking. Mothers typically express more concern for the child's immediate well-being, while fathers concentrate on a child's long-term autonomy and independence," Popenoe says.
As the late November winds cut across her legs and blew under her coat, Mattie shivered violently and realized that she had rushed from the house without any slip or stockings. She pulled her tweed coat closer to her neck to cut off the wind and stop her body from trembling with cold, and moved on toward the police precinct. The brick and glass building threw out a ghostly light against the thin morning air. She paused a moment to catch her breath before the iron lettering engraved over the door, and then pushed the slanted metal bar and went in.
By itself, good writing is no guarantee of success. But words are more than words and business writing does not exist in a vacuum. What you write will always have a purpose and if you write well you are more likely to achieve it, and to succeed.
ALL RIGHT. THE STORY OF JERRY AND THE DOG! What I am going to tell you has something to do with how sometimes it's necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly; or maybe I only think that it has something to do with that. But, it's why I went to the zoo today, and why I walked north ... northerly, rather... until I came here.
All right. The dog, I think I told you, is a black monster of a beast: an oversized head, tiny, tiny ears, and eyes ... bloodshot eyes, infected, maybe; and body you can see the ribs through the skin. The dog is black, all black; all black except for the bloodshot eyes, and yes... and an open sore on it's .... right forepaw; that's red, too. And, oh yes; the poor monster, and I do believe it's an old dog.......
Un cuento clasico para la hora de dormir. Buenas Noches, Luna, Por Margaret Wise Brown. Illustraciones de Celement Hurd. Traduccion de Teresa Mlawer. En la gran habitacion verde, hay un telefono, un globo rojo y un cuadro...de una vaquita que salta sobre la luna.
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